


Richie, I Have Done Thy Mother

by cortexikid



Series: We Can’t All Be Shakespeare [2]
Category: IT (2019), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adrian and the interviewer ship Reddie, And starts to re-evaluate his and Richie’s relationship, Don’t have to read part 1 to get this but it’s recommended, Eddie and Stan and Adrian have all been resurrected because fuck Stephen King, Eddie is not happy about it, First Kiss, Fix-It, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Richie is being interviewed by a handsome journalist while the Losers watch, eddie’s pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:47:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22562731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortexikid/pseuds/cortexikid
Summary: “Come on, Eds, I’m pretty sure Bill Denbrough was everyone’s first crush.”“Not mine.”The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.Silence engulfs the room and Eddie finds himself almost missing the tranquility of death.“Who did you have a crush on then?” Richie asks, his tone sharp, his face unreadable as his arm drops like an anvil from Bill’s shoulder.Suddenly, he’s barely a foot away, staring down at Eddie.Their eyes lock."Last time I checked this was your interview, Rich. Not mine."
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: We Can’t All Be Shakespeare [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1623406
Comments: 44
Kudos: 400





	Richie, I Have Done Thy Mother

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So this is a companion piece to “Exit, Pursued by a Twunk” (which was from the perspective of the reporter interviewing Richie) but from Eddie’s POV this time. It’s not _super_ imperative to read "Twunk" first, but some of the jokes/references are missed in this as Eddie is too busy having a mental meltdown to fully pay attention. So, to catch all of my lame humour and a glimpse of these dumb, pining idiots from an outsider's perspective, maybe start with that. With that, hope you enjoy Eddie's 15,000 word love-confession :)

**_We know what we are, but know not what we may be..._ **

**_~ Hamlet Act IV, Scene V_ **

**_~*~_ **

  
  


“I don’t see that name here.”

  
  


Eddie Kaspbrak’s jaw clenches.

  
  


_Not again. How many times do I have to tell Richie not to forget to put my goddamn name on the—_

  
  


“I _am_ on the list,” he insists, waving a hand down at the clipboard, “I have to be. Can you check again? We’ve met before, man, it’s Eddie—”

  
  


“Kaspbrak, I know,” Paul Blart wannabe sighs, his voice tinged with a heavy dose of boredom, “but I'm telling you, your name’s _not here._ Mr Tozier mustn’t have—”

  
  


“He literally talks about me in his show, bro,” Eddie cuts across him, exasperation lacing his tone at the unintentional rhyme and being forced to admit with air-quotes, “‘Eddie Spaghetti, two fannypacks, short-assed, short-fused, hypochondriac?’ _Ring any bells_?” 

  
  


The guard does a piss-poor job of hiding his smirk.

  
  


Eddie nearly wants to die all over again.

  
  


“Like I said, Mr Kaspbrak. If your name’s not on the list—”

  
  


He breaks off, offering a wide smile (that had yet to make an appearance for Eddie) at Beverly, Bill and Ben as they suddenly walk past, easily stepping through the barrier.

  
  


Eddie throws them a glare as they grin at him, not attempting to help in any way.

  
  


“Nice to see you again, Ms Marsh, Mr Hanscom. Mr Denbrough, I loved your last book,” the security guard calls out with a smile, not even glancing at his stupid clipboard for their names. 

  
  


“Thanks, man, appreciate it,” Bill calls back, winking at Eddie and continuing to walk inside. 

  
  


“Bill—Bev—guys!”

  
  


The Losers wave at him, (with only Ben looking a little conflicted) clearly enjoying the spectacle they no doubt think he is about to make. 

  
  


He shoves down the urge to flip them off. 

  
  


It wouldn’t exactly help his case right now. 

  
  


He digs his hand in his pocket and pulls out his phone. 

  
  


"Look, I’ll just give Richie a call and get him—”

  
  


“Eddie?”

  
  


He whirls around at the familiar voice, heaving a sigh of relief. 

  
  


“Don, thank god. Can you let me in? Rich forgot to put me on the fucking list again, even though I reminded him every morning this week,” he grumbles as Don Hagarty, Richie’s PA ambles up to him, knowing smile on his face. 

  
  


“Yeah, that sounds like Richie.” 

  
  


The taller man nods to... _Chet-Chase-whatever_ who looks wholly unimpressed, and ushers Don and Eddie through flippantly. Eddie stares him down as he crosses the threshold. 

  
  


_Chuck-Che-Chance_ remains unfazed.

  
  


“Thanks Chad,” Don smiles. 

  
  


_Ugh. Fucking Chad._

  
  


Backstage is as chaotic as always, with dozens of stage hands, light and sound engineers and makeup and hair stylists all rushing around.

  
  


All for Richie’s show.

  
  


Sometimes, Eddie gets a little overwhelmed at just how successful his best friend has become. Yeah, sure, he had success before... _everything_...but arguably, the last two years have skyrocketed him to true, B-lister fame. Ever since he started putting out his own stuff, it has been acclaim after acclaim, award after award, Netflix deal after Netflix deal. It's pretty astounding, and he couldn't be prouder of Richie. Not that Eddie would ever tell him that. 

  
  


He cranes his neck around, eyes searching for that familiar mop of messy, brown hair towering over everyone else like a gangly, uncoordinated ostrich.

  
  


“He’s in his dressing room,” Don informs him as if reading his mind. 

  
  


Eddie opens his mouth to say thank you when Stan, with a lanyard (that looks suspiciously like a stage pass) hanging around his neck and Mike, who seems to be deeply enthralled in whatever one of the lighting engineers is saying, walk by.

  
  


_Of course they got in no problem...dickheads._

  
  


"I gotta go argue with Maryanne about the Pepsi commercial that Richie is 100% not doing, so I'll leave you to it," Don throws him a half smile/half grimace as he probably reflects on his immediate fate, "Adrian should stop by soon, he'll text when he's here." 

  
  


With that, Don pats Eddie's shoulder and strides away, his tall form quickly engulfed by the crowd of busy crew members. 

  
  


Eddie watches him go for a moment, lost in thought at the hilarity of Richie slinging Pepsi like some Kindle Jenner or whatever her name is, before shaking his head and making a beeline for Richie's dressing room. 

  
  


As he nears, he's surprised to see the door closed (a rarity for Richie, especially this close to curtain call) but is undeterred, storming straight up to the door and shoving it open with more force than he intended. 

  
  


“What the fuck, Richard?! Did you forget to tell that asshole in security about me again?”

  
  


Richie's deer-caught-in-headlights look would have been amusing to Eddie if he could have focussed on it. Instead, he's busy freezing, realising belatedly that Richie isn't alone, but accompanied by a handsome stranger. 

  
  


_Who the fuck is this?_

  
  


Eddie is allowed to admit to himself when he finds men attractive now. It only took him forty years, a reunion, a death and a divorce (in that order) for that particular breakthrough. Doesn't mean he's always happy about it, though. 

  
  


Especially when said attractive men are in his best friend's dressing room, sitting incredibly close to him. 

  
  


He falters for a split second, losing his steam for his patented Kaspbrak rant, but recovers quickly, forcing himself to meet his friend's eye. 

  
  


“Fucking Bill and Bev breeze through no problem, famous faces and shit. Ben waltzes in being the fucking model he is. Stan already has a pass somehow, because of course he fucking does, and Mike is currently talking light fixtures with his new buddy, the stage guy. So, that just leaves me to nearly have a throw down with that beefy, walking god-complex at the front gate. What the shit, dude?! Did you not put me on the fucking list?”

  
  


Seconds tick by in which Eddie can feel rather than see the rest of the Losers approaching from down the hallway, but he keeps his attention on Richie, who has lit up like the fourth of July, his eyes twinkling in his direction.

  
  


Eddie tries and fails to ignore his heart thudding hard against his ribcage. 

  
  


_I'm not having a heart attack. I'm not having a heart attack. I'm not—_

  
  


“Must have slipped my mind, Eduardo, my bad,” he says in such a way that is not even slightly believable, “I’m uh…” he shoots a glance at mystery man, “I’m kinda in the middle of something though, so–”

  
  


"Why are we hangin’ in the hallway?” Ben interrupts as they all halt beside Eddie who tears his eyes away from Richie to glare at Bev and Bill, who merely smirk back at him. 

  
  


“Because Eds has zero manners."

  
  


Eddie swallows down his biting retort, aware that it would only further Richie's point. Instead, he and the rest of the Losers scramble into the room, used to the routine by now, after visiting Richie backstage several times over the last year. 

  
  


His gaze trails across mystery man, taking in his appearance. He has light brown hair, jade-green eyes, and is of a similar height and build to Eddie, just slightly taller and thinner.

  
  


And noticeably younger. 

  
  


And hotter. 

  
  


Okay, so they might not be _that_ similar. 

  
  


Eddie tries not to scowl. 

  
  


He's maybe 45% successful. 

  
  


"Jake Daniels from _Here 'n' Queer Magazine_ ," Richie begins with an air of a man about to make a speech, leaning into the journalist far more than is necessary in Eddie's opinion, "let me make introductions ‘cause I’ll probably be bringing these assholes up in conversation soon anyway.”

  
  


Eddie rolls his eyes, inwardly groaning over what is sure to come. Richie loves introducing his friends like he's a presenter at an award ceremony. It usually entails a lot of fan-fare, some objectification and far more words than any of them are ever comfortable with. 

  
  


He impatiently waits his turn, wondering what Richie would liken him to next. Last time, he remembers the words 'angry koala' making an appearance. 

  
  


But the introduction doesn't come. 

  
  


“So, they’re the O.G. Losers Club,” Richie waves, seemingly unaware of Eddie's indignation, “You want to continue with–"

“Hold up dickwad, what about me? Don’t I get a fancy introduction?”

  
  


The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. He fights down a flush of embarrassment as every eye in the room turns to him, including _Hot and Young Jack the Journalist's._

  
  


Eddie knows he's doing a good impression of his mom when she'd begin her tirade of terror, hands on hips, mouth set tight. But he can't stop himself, no matter how much he hates it. He fears he's getting more and more like her every day. 

  
  


He looks to Jace’s (?) raised eyebrows, back to Richie's confused, slightly magnified eyes and tries to let them be the balm for his spike of irritation at being left out. 

  
  


_Oh, get a fucking grip, Kaspbrak._

  
  


Richie blinks at him before shrugging, "Uh, thought you kinda made your own introduction there, Eds, but sure—" he leans back into James (?). 

  
  


Eddie barely stifles a wince. 

  
  


“And this little ray of sunshine is Eddie Spaghetti–”

  
  


“Not my name–”

“Who is a boredom adviser–”

“Risk analyst–”

“And has never learned how to knock.”

  
  


A warmth pools in his gut. Now this is Eddie's wheelhouse. Bickering back and forth with Richie, pushing each others' buttons. 

  
  


This is the balm to most of his internal battles. 

  
  


But Richie's eyes help too. 

  
  


_Let's not analyse that too closely._

  
  


“Are they always like this?” Joe (?) the journalist directs to the rest of the Losers. 

  
  


Eddie's hackles rise. 

“Since 1984,” they all reply together, just like they always have when posited that question. 

  
  


The warmth spreads to Eddie's chest. 

  
  


Turns out, a lot can change in a 24-year-absence. But Richie and Eddie's... _RichieAndEddie-ness_ isn't one of them. And for that, Eddie is incredibly grateful. 

  
  


Not that he'd tell him that either. 

  
  


Eddie has been not telling Richie a lot of things these days. 

  
  


Some things being the same things that thirteen-year-old Eddie didn't tell him either. 

  
  


When Eddie clues back into the conversation at hand, he realises that Richie must have granted them permission to stay, because the Losers have begun to disperse throughout the room. His feet remain glued to the floor, though. 

  
  


He can’t help but stare a little, watching Richie interact with another man. It’s not something he has really gotten to observe. Not since Richie’s very public coming out last year, anyway. Him being out, it didn't change anything, not really. Not that Eddie expected it to. He is still the same ol’ Richie— loud, obnoxious and able to get under Eddie’s skin unlike anyone he has ever known. 

  
  


But seeing him now, like this, chatting freely and smiling... _like that_ \- it made Eddie realise that now that he is out and proud and most importantly _happy_ , things like this could become more and more prevalent. 

  
  


His stomach lurched.

  
  


_It’s a magazine interview, not speed-dating, jerkface. Calm down._

  
  


He tries not to think about why his heart is racing in the first place.

  
  


_Shit. Maybe I am having a heart attack._

  
  


“Dude, call me Richie, please. And these guys already know about all the rainbow skeletons in my closet,” Richie is saying as Eddie shuffles across the room and sits down heavily in a vacant makeup chair, “and even if they didn’t, they’d soon read all about them. So, go ahead, ask me anything. I’m an open book.”

  
  


_Famous last words, Rich._

  
  


Eddie watches intently as the journalist gathers himself. 

  
  


“Alright, well, let’s start with the obvious, then. You just said you’re an open book. But, you weren’t always. By your own admission, you’ve been closeted for the greater part of forty years. So, my first question is - why come out now? And did it have anything to do with you wanting to perform your own material after years of using ghost writers?” 

  
  


Eddie almost jumps out of his seat.

  
  


_What a fucking asshole!_

  
  


He feels a hand clamp down on his shoulder before he can move a muscle. Glancing up, he sees Stan eyeing him warningly. 

  
  


They both focus back on Richie, who is looking around the room, his jaw noticeably slack. 

  
  


“Whoa, you’re goin’ straight for the jugular, huh? Alright.”

  
  


The tension in his tone is obvious, even if Eddie didn’t know him as well as he did. 

  
  


_I_ _bet he’s gonna cross his ankle over his—_

  
  


Richie shifts in his chair, ankle crossing over his knee and held in place with his hands, just as Eddie predicted he would. It was exactly the same way he would sit whenever he was uncomfortable as a preteen. 

  
  


It never ceases to amaze Eddie just how well he still manages to know Richie after all these years. Sure, they both had changed significantly since their time as kids, but there are still little nuances, little touches here and there that would make him light up, knowing that even after everything, there are things that never changed and would constantly remind them of their friendship. 

  
  


Of their childhood. 

  
  


Of their lives together. 

  
  


Before it all went to shit. 

  
  


“I uh...I guess I was just sick of hiding who I am. Tired of spouting sexist and homophobic jokes written by straight, white, twenty-five-year-old dickholes with a degree in Sex and Masculinity Studies or some shit.”

  
  


Eddie rolls his eyes at that. Richie had told him many a tale about _Steve_. 

  
  
  


“A...A good friend reminded me recently that I shouldn’t be afraid. That I should be who I wanna be. And be proud. So...that’s what I’m trying to do.”

  
  


That warmth within Eddie spreads throughout his entire body at that. 

  
  


He doesn’t think he’ll ever stop being so damn _proud_ of Richie. 

  
  


Stan gives sound advice. And Eddie finds himself thanking spooky-Derry-resurrection-magic for the thousandth time that it no longer has to come in only letter-form. And, you know, that _he’s_ also not buried under a thousand pounds of rubble in a shit-infested sewer with a gaping wound in his chest, anymore either. 

  
  


“And how has the response to your coming out live on stage been for you personally?”

  
  


Eddie’s eyes catch on Richie’s bottom lip as it’s sucked between his teeth. 

  
  


A familiar pull tugs low in his gut. 

  
  


He shifts in his seat, feeling the back of his neck grow hot. 

  
  


_Not the fucking time, Kaspbrak._

“Like, ninety percent awesome?” Richie gives a small smile that Eddie finds himself mirroring. “Tons of support, retweets, likes, 1.3 million more followers. And that's just Twitter. Meeting fans in real life that admit to hating my old act, but my new one means the world to them has been...a dream come true.”

Eddie’s smile grows so much that he begins hiding it behind his knuckles as he leans an elbow on the arm of the chair. He had staunchly avoided social media for the majority of his life, bemoaning the vapid, insincere bullshit that people would often upload to convince those around them that they weren’t as lonely and miserable as everyone else. But, just under two years ago, he relented under the peer pressure of the Losers insisting he get Facebook _and_ Whatsapp so they could have a group chat. 

  
  


_It’s so easy to keep in touch that way, Eds. Don’t be such a luddite. I shudder to think of all the memes you've missed out on._ Why they needed two separate group chats, Eddie still doesn't know. And yet, before he knew it, that Facebook account became a Twitter account - mainly so he could openly roast Richie for his ridiculous word-vomit masquerading as tweets.

  
  


Someone had to knock him down several pegs. And Eddie took on that job very seriously.

  
  


So, it became a thing. 

  
  


Richie would post something and Eddie would detail all the ways in which it was wrong or ridiculous or dumb or, very, very seldomly, insightful. 

  
  


And Richie gave as good as he got. It soon became an all-too-common occurrence for Eddie to wake up to a slew of retweets and replies and likes on his latest observation because Richie had torn it to shreds using wit and an overabundance of poop emojis. 

  
  


But it's when the Instagram live-streams begin that Eddie really wants to blow up the entire internet.

  
  


It had started out innocently enough. Eddie had been living in Richie’s building for about three months, post-divorce and subsequent relocation to Los Angeles for his timely mid-life-post-death crisis. It had been a quiet morning, one of the few times that Eddie didn’t have to be in the office until later and also a rare instance where Richie had risen before noon. Naturally, that evolved into Richie strong-arming Eddie into making him breakfast in his kitchen.

  
  


After some bickering and a lot of disinfecting of multiple kitchen surfaces, Eddie heaved a sigh and began making (with suit jacket off and shirt sleeves rolled up) his specialty - the veggie omelette. What he was blissfully unaware of at the time, was that Richie had begun secretly filming him on his phone, adding in his own snark commentary at pretty much everything Eddie said and did.

  
  


It had been viewed by 10,321 people.

  
  


Which catapulted Eddie into the very precarious subset of popularity - #internetfamous. 

  
  


It eventually somehow garnered him 785,000 Twitter followers and a little blue tick beside his name.

  
  


Eddie’s life is weird now.

  
  


But he soon got used to it.

  
  


Admittedly, he had blown a small gasket when Richie admitted to the stream, but after reading some of the replies, (blushing furiously at the many comments of _‘is he your new BOYFRIEND, Trashmouth?’_ (and multiple variations,) he merely rolled his eyes and told Richie not to get used to it. _If you want a personal chef, hire one, dickwad. You’re rich now._

  
  


But Richie never did get around to hiring anyone, probably because Eddie kept cooking for him. Breakfast every Thursday when he started work late, and dinner every Saturday whenever Richie didn’t have a show.

  
  


At least 30% of these meals were broadcast over the internet - the morning ones gathering a particularly large following and evolved into Richie branding a series of sorts that he dubbed _#getreadywitheddie_ that was soon followed up with the internet’s own creation _#getreadywithreddie_. ‘Reddie’ being the ridiculous portmanteau of their names that Richie did nothing to discourage and soon started adding to his own posts. 

  
  


Eddie hates him so fucking much.

  
  


Except, you know, he doesn’t.

  
  


Not even a little bit.

  
  


Which is becoming a big fucking problem.

  
  


Eddie shakes his head, not wanting to go down that road right now.

  
  


Or maybe ever.

  
  


'But there’s always that ten percent of shittiness, you know?” Richie is saying when he tunes back into the interview. “The trolls, the homophobes burning their ‘Trashmouth’ T-shirts, that kinda thing. But the positivity makes up for it tenfold. And at the end of the day, I’ve learned to not let what strangers think of me matter too much,” he gives that little self-deprecating laugh that always makes Eddie’s chest pang, “if thirteen-year-old me could see me now.”

  
  


Red hot fury flows through Eddie’s veins as he recalls the myriad of shit that Richie had gotten from assholes when he first came out. Stan had had to do his Lawyer Thing™ and remind Eddie just how much jail-time he’d face if he hunted those bastards down and smashed their homophobic faces in.

  
  


Didn't stop him fantasizing about it, though.

  
  


“And what was thirteen-year-old you like?” 

  
  


That question draws a groan from deep within Eddie’s gut. God knows what this line of questioning could lead to.

  
  


Suddenly, Richie’s eyes meet his and Eddie feels thirteen all over again. He fights a blush as he tries to decipher what Richie could be silently saying.

  
  


_Hey Eds, remember that time in eighth grade when Stacy Winters dared you to kiss me and you faked an allergic reaction to get out of it? So I bundled you up in my jacket and gently peddled you home on my bike, telling you over and over that you were gonna be okay? And you thought about my breath against your ear every night for months after and never gave my jacket back?_

  
  


Eddie swallows the lump in his throat as Richie looks away, the weird beat passing.

  
  


Richie flips the Losers off, scoffing, “Oh, shut up. You all loved thirteen-year-old Trashmouth. He was a riot. A legend in the making. A–”

  
  


“Annoying attention-seeker with a potty-mouth and an arsenal of bad impressions,” he interjects with a smirk.

  
  


_Also funny, smart and weirdly sweet sometimes._

  
  


Those words he also leaves unsaid. 

  
  


Richie throws him a faux-hurt look, hand pressed against his chest. 

  
  


“Edward! You wound me!” He gasps with that dumb, wide-eyed, slack-jawed horror worthy of a Shakespearean maiden, that Eddie absolutely did not find endearing, “You loved my impressions! Señor Caca, Irish Cop, the British guy, Penny–”

  
  


“So you were always the entertainer, then?”

  
  
  


Eddie stifles a frown at the interruption, but just barely. He had been gearing up to argue his case, having many, many examples of tragic teen and preteen Richie anecdotes in his armory. 

  
  


That time Richie got pantsed in gym class. Or when he spent $75 on weed that ended up being oregano. Or when he spiked his own punch at junior prom and puked on their principal. Eddie had dozens and dozens of stories of exactly what Richie had been like at thirteen, nine, fifteen, eleven and everything in between. 

  
  


And he had spent the last twenty-two months trying to fill in the gaps on what he didn’t know. Like what Richie had been like at twenty-one, thirty-seven, nineteen and everything in between. Eddie hates that he was forced to miss it. That they were all forced to forget each other. So, he now made it his mission to make up for lost time. Which has led to him and Richie being pretty much attached at the hip, just like when they were kids.

  
  


He’d never admit that he probably shouldn’t have gatecrashed this interview, though. 

  
  


Richie’s eyes meet his, something twinkling in them as if he could read Eddie’s thoughts and was seconds away from teasing the ever loving shit out of him. 

  
  


Eddie, never one to back down, holds his gaze, his heart racing in his chest. 

  
  


Richie looks away.

  
  


Eddie isn’t sure if he’s happy or sad about that. 

  
  


“Yeah, I guess. Someone had to distract these disasters from awkward teenage angst, impromptu boners and childhood trauma.”

  
  


He knows that Richie is playing that as a joke, but it’s anything but. Sometimes, Eddie can’t help but reflect on just how much Richie kept them all... _right_. How they had thought things couldn’t possibly be that bad if Trashmouth was still talking trash. Like when Bev was made move to Portland, or Bill’s family relocating after his mom couldn’t stand living in the town where Georgie died, Richie was right there, bad joke on his lips to try and make them all feel better. 

  
  


Until he was forced away too. 

  
  


Eddie doesn’t think he has ever cried as much as he did that day, standing on the Kissing Bridge, Richie staring down at him, magnified eyes glassy with tears seconds from shedding, saying that he wanted to tell him something before he left. 

  
  


_“I uh...I want...need you to know Eds…”_

  
  


He had shaken his head, eyebrows furrowed. Biting on his bottom lip so hard that he broke skin. 

  
  
  


Eddie had stared at his mouth, flushed and swollen, for what felt like eternity before their eyes finally met.

  
  
  


_“I fucked your mom.”_

  
  
  


Eddie shoved him, then. 

  
  


_“That’s it?”_ He had gaped, throwing up exasperated hands, _“That’s the ‘big thing’ you needed to tell me before leaving forever? God, you’re an idiot.”_

  
  


Richie just shrugged, a solitary tear rolling down behind his glasses. 

  
  


_“What can I say, Eds? We can’t all be Shakespeare.”_

  
  


Eddie told him to fuck off before pulling him into the tightest hug he had ever given anyone, burying his face in Richie’s shoulder and letting the sobs overtake him.

  
  


He made a promise to himself that he would never forget that day. Or any of their other days. Assured both of them that they would “ _Still be friends, dude. California isn’t Mars or something.”_

  
  


_How fucking naive he was at sixteen._

  
  


Eddie Kaspbrak would never forget Richie Tozier. No matter where in the world he was. 

  
  


Until he himself left Derry and was made to. 

  
  


But, he remembers now. Can't stop remembering, in fact. 

  
  


And that is a problem too. 

  
  


Eddie shakes his head, much like Richie had back then on that bridge all those years ago. 

  
  


He has to stop spacing out so much and focus on what’s happening in the inter—

  
  


“Did you get many impromptu boners?”

  
  


Eddie’s stomach leaps into his chest.

  
  


_Jesus, this interviewer - John? Is un-fucking-believable._

  
  


Judging by Richie’s face, he thinks so too. 

  
  


But maybe in a _different_ way. 

  
  


“Ha, I mean, didn’t we all pop a few?” Richie asks with a smirk, “Well, except for Bev. Obviously."

  
  


Eddie’s stomach continues somersaulting, he is unable to look away from the interviewer as Richie turns slightly to shoot the shit with Bev. Eddie doesn’t hear their exchange over the rush of blood and elevated heartbeats in his ears. 

  
  


Richie turns back to _Jack-James-whatever_ , rubbing the back of his neck, "I guess I had to be even more careful with any misplaced... _feelings_. Small town USA. The ‘80s, you know…”

  
  


A wave of hurt washes over Eddie as his eyes run over his friend’s face. Thinking back, he could only imagine how alone Richie must have felt growing up in a shithole like Derry. Feeling... _that way_ for other boys and not being able to talk about it with anyone. Feeling so lost and lonely and scared. Like a freak who could never be loved by any—

  
  


Actually, Eddie had a fair idea how that felt. He could admit that now. 

  
  


Still, his heart broke for that loudmouthed, trash-talking thirteen year old who never got to be true to himself. 

  
  


And maybe he had some sympathy for his annoying, hyperactive hypochondriac friend too. 

  
  


Eddie keeps his eyes on the interviewer as he ruminates on this, can't stop himself from thinking if this man or someone like him, would be Richie’s _person_. The someone who would ensure he’d never be alone, lonely or unloved ever again. 

  
  


His heart sinks into his stomach. 

  
  


“So, no secret rendezvous for high school Richie?”

  
  


Eddie tenses up so much the back of his left calf starts cramping. This is a fucking rollercoaster. 

  
  


From the corner of his eye, he can feel Stanley glance over to him but he keeps his focus on Richie, scouring his face for any sign of...what, he isn’t sure.   
  


“What, you wanna hear about how I blew a football star under the bleachers when I was fifteen, or something?”

  
  


He says it in such a way that it could have been an off-the-cuff, completely random example of something that a teenager would have possibly done in their rebellious phase. But just something about the little line in between Richie’s eyebrows suggests to Eddie that it may not have been very random at all. 

  
  


“Did you?”

  
  


Eddie hates that that’s one of the first questions he’s glad the journalist asks. 

  
  


Otherwise, he may have just yelled it out himself. 

  
  


Eddie can feel that the rest of the Losers are no longer trying to make it seem like they’re not totally eavesdropping and are probably as invested in hearing the answer as he is. 

  
  


Nearly. 

  
  


Richie catches his eye for a split second. 

  
  


“Uh…”

  
  


“Who was it?” Eddie blurts out before he can stop himself.

  
  


Ignoring the blush burning across his face, his brain fires off synapses at a hundred miles an hour, raking over every possibility. 

  
  


Fifteen. Footballer. Under the bleach—

  
  


_Oh, no. No. Not Josh fucking McGregor? That guy was a total asshole! He used to make Richie’s life hell, constantly pushing him around and calling him names and...wait...what if it was some fucked up 'pulling pigtails' type shit?_

  
  


Eddie feels all the blood drain from his face. 

  
  


"It wasn't..." he falters, not wanting to accidentally out someone to a journalist, even if that someone was a gigantic dickwad, " _you know who,_ was it, Richie? God, didn't he like dunk your head down–"

  
  


"No Eds, it wasn't Voldemort," Richie sighs, no longer looking at him, "but in an effort to not kiss and tell—”

  
  


Eddie knows him well enough to know that he struggled not to say _blow-and-tell_. Richie's restraint is admirable at times. 

  
  


"I'm gonna go with a 'no comment' and ask my mouthy friend here to shut the fuck up and mind his own business."

  
  


Eddie also knows he’s doing a piss-poor job at hiding his offense at that. 

  
  


“Okay, something easier, then," he hears rather than sees the reporter shuffle his notes, clearly deciding to change the subject, "What was your first gay bar experience like?”

  
  


Richie laughs, clearly charmed.

  
  


Eddie’s going to scream. Any second now. This is fucking torture. 

  
  


"Well, I was so far in the closet at the time my BFF was Aslan, so, kinda uneventful, to be honest. Like, at the first sign of interest, I was all 'exit, pursued by a bear then apologise and let the bear down gently,' kinda deal."

"Poor bear." 

"Yeah, he was a nice dude. Hope he found someone."

  
  


God, and there’s that odd sweetness buried under all that snark and your mom jokes that Richie clearly had not lost since childhood. Just like Eddie knew he wouldn’t. 

  
  


Eddie’s eyes flicker between the two men and can’t help but notice a shift in atmosphere. 

  
  


"You're sweet," Jim (?) remarks, a smile tugging at his lips. 

  
  


“Thanks,” Richie replies quietly, a soft smile of his own making an appearance. 

  
  


Eddie’s stomach drops off the quarry cliff.

  
  


There’s a beat where he’s intensely aware that the Losers are just as intently watching the scene unfolding in front of them. 

  
  


"So, now that you're out," the reporter continues, "Have your recent gay bar experiences gone better? Any more broken-hearted bears? Tearful twinks?" 

Richie snorts, shifting in his seat. 

"Nah, I pretty much just stick with these Losers whenever they're in town. Most other days are just me, my pet turtle, Matty, and my Netflix subscription. Haven't really had time to date with, you know, everything."

  
  


_What about me? You have me_ too, Eddie can’t help but mentally add, a stab darting through his chest. Well, maybe stab isn’t quite the right word. Eddie has felt what a real stab feels like, after all. Twice. But this...this is still somehow almost worse. 

  
  


_God, you're pathetic._ Another voice, not unlike his mother’s, answers. 

  
  


Eddie _is_ there, though. With Richie, day in and day out. Has been for nearly two years now. Hell, he went pet-shopping with Richie _for_ Matty. He helped name him. If it had been left to Richie, he would have been called _Maturin_ because it apparently ‘came to him in a dream,' for Christ sake. 

  
  


So no, it’s not just Richie, the turtle and Netflix. It’s also Eddie and Eddie’s cleaning and Eddie stealing Richie's Netflix password and filling his DVR with _How It’s Made_ episodes. It’s Eddie covering Richie with the throw blanket after he crashes from a writing session while sprawled on the couch, his feet in Eddie’s lap. It’s Eddie making them breakfast and pretending that he doesn’t notice when Richie starts live-streaming. It’s Eddie making them dinner and definitely noticing when Richie decides to not live-stream and instead watches him quietly, intently, as if absorbing every word Eddie is saying, no matter how boring pressure cookers are. 

  
  


_He means romantically, doofus. You with your bitching and whining and OCD are sure as shit not ‘romantic’ to him, so don’t warrant mentioning..._

  
  


The not-stabbing pain intensifies.

  
  


“Well uh, our _Here 'n' Queer_ readers will be pleased to hear that.”

  
  


Oh, no, yeah. That definitely fucking feels like he’s being stabbed. 

  
  


Eddie glares over at the _John-Jace-Jack_ , but a movement soon nabs his attention - Richie, awkwardly adjusting his glasses. 

  
  


_That’s something he does when he’s nervous…_  
  


“Heh, good to know, man. I can use all the help I can get.”

  
  


It’s a far cry from his ‘I’ve-fucked-hundreds-of-nameless-women-and-hate-my-nagging-girlfriend persona. Still, the implication has Eddie’s heart hammering. 

  
  
  


_Fuck. Is Richie blushing? Holy shit, Richie is fucking blush—_

  
  
  


“Oh, I’m sure you don't need any help in that depart _—_ "

  
  


Eddie forces a loud cough from deep within his chest, cutting the reporter off mid-sentence. 

  
  


Irritation spikes in his veins. 

  
  


_How fucking unprofessional is this guy gonna get?!_

  
  


"Shouldn't you be asking about his Netflix deal?" He directs at him, ignoring how sardonic he sounds.

  
  


That’s why he’s here, right? To interview Richie about his career. Not his personal life, or childhood or love—no. His _professional life_ is meant to be the focus. Eddie may not be a journalist, but he thinks he knows at least that much. That’s what’s bugging him, really. It’s supposed to be Richie’s showcase, his time to shine, his moment in the spotlight and instead this guy is, what? Flirting with him? The level of unprofessionalism is just— 

  
  


Richie catches his eye, brow furrowed, "The man doesn't tell you how to predict how having fun will end up killing you, or whatever, Eddie. Let him do his job, man." 

  
  


His stomach twists into a large knot as he stares at his friend, who's looking at him with a baffled expression, clearly bothered. He hates that look. Hates even more that he’s the one that put it there. 

  
  


Thankfully, his phone vibrates before he can spiral down that particular rabbithole. Gnawing on the inside of his cheek, he forces his eyes down.

  
  


He’s vaguely aware that the interviewer has asked another question as he focuses on his phone, clicking into a new message. 

  
  
  


**_Adrian M: Yo Kaspy, where you at?_ **

  
  


Eddie rolls his eyes at Adrian’s text. 

  
  


**_You: I’m just in Richie’s dressing room._ **

**_Adrian M: Some pre-show fun? You finally grow some balls?_ **

**_You: Ha ha. Hilarious. The Losers are here too._ **

**_Adrian M: Oooh kinky! Didn’t think you’d be into voyeurism_ **

**_You: You really think I’d be texting you if me and Rich were fucking, Adrian?_ **

**_Adrian M: You know I like to be included, Kasp_ **

**_You: So funny. Richie should have you as a warm up._ **

**_Adrian M: Ikr? Lol. How’s our boy doing? Interview going okay?_ **

**_You: Better than okay. Pretty sure this jackass is flirting with him._ **

**_Adrian M: Really?! Omfg. Is Richie flirting back?_ **

  
  


Eddie gives a surreptitious glance up from his screen, his stomach rolling as he watches Richie's eyes light up, speaking animatedly at the reporter, a flush across his cheeks. 

  
  


**_You: He's not...not flirting._ **

**_Adrian M: Wtf does that mean?_ **

**_You: Just, you know. He's only getting comfortable with being out, so it's kinda hard to tell if he's flirting or just being friendly._ **

**_Adrian M: Oh, honey. Your stupidity astounds me sometimes_ **

  
  


Eddie glares down at his phone. He's getting pretty fucking sick and tired of Adrian constantly on his ass about telling _“that giant goofball ya wanna climb him like a tree, Kaspy."_

  
  


It had all started back when they were dead. He and Adrian in the vast wasteland of the afterlife. Just...trudging through, constant companions in a sea of nothingness. They had talked about everything and anything. Their lives, their deaths and all the good and bad in-between stuff. 

  
  


The in-between stuff ended up mostly being what and who they missed.

  
  


Adrian spoke about his charity work, his Gayme nights and his dog, Rocco.

  
  


He spoke of his mom, his little sister and Don.

  
  


Eddie spoke about his job, his Sunday chess match in the park and his secret comic book collection.

  
  


He spoke of The Losers, his elderly neighbour June, and Richie. 

  
  


(He couldn’t pinpoint why, but Richie got his own category outside of The Losers Club.)

  
  


(He also couldn’t pinpoint why he didn’t bring up Myra.) 

  
  


Maybe, it could have been because according to Adrian (although Eddie had no way to substantiate this, so was naturally skeptical) he had apparently woken up dead with not his wife's name on his lips, but Richie's. 

  
  


It made sense, really. Richie had been the last person he had seen before he...slipped away. His face would be forever burned in Eddie's brain, the frantic worry and tear-stained cheeks etched into the back of Eddie’s mind for all eternity. 

  
  


Eddie hadn’t meant to die. He had tried so, so hard to hang on, listening to his best friends bully a demonic alien to death, but he had just gotten so tired. Had closed his eyes for just a second. And then…

  
  


He woke up in a hazy glow of white...emptiness. Foggy-brained and alone. Until he wasn’t. 

  
  


Each man had been weary of one another at first, both convinced that the other was some sort of IT manifestation, which - understandable. 

  
  


But, they soon warmed up to the idea that they were who they said they were, accepting their tenuous fate of the unknown. And so, they walked and talked and admitted things that they never would have while they were alive. 

  
  


Adrian disclosed that he had sometimes felt as if Don was too good for him.

  
  


And in turn, after a lot of self-reflection, Eddie finally confessed to having a life-long crush on Richie, expressing his regret at having never been brave enough to kiss him when he had the chance, before they were made forget each other. (Or even when he remembered again, in those few short days, despite him being married.)

  
  


The guilt he had felt was nothing compared to the taunting agony of what could have been. 

  
  


But that was crazy, wasn’t it? Like, even if Richie wasn’t literally the straightest man ever (with gross standup to prove it), it didn’t mean that Eddie of all people would have _ever_ had a chance. Right? 

  
  


He found himself asking that over and over when he and Adrian woke up alive, back in Derry, Eddie in the quarry and Adrian in the morgue. 

  
  


(That had been one hell of a day.) 

  
  


(And one hell of an explanation to the terrified Medical Examiner. Thank God for delayed autopsies, and all that.) 

  
  


They were both still a little worse for wear, still bearing the majority of their non-life-ending injuries, scars and bruises and broken bones aplenty (magic resurrection could only manage so much), but they were, undoubtedly, bewilderingly, alive. 

  
  


And, once finding each other on the land of the living, and haphazardly reuniting with their friends and loved ones (Stan popping back up with a similar tale in Georgia to the astonishment of Patty), they stayed in touch. It was kind of hard to drift from a person you literally walked through the afterlife with. 

  
  


Adrian had waited exactly one month of their post-death-re-life to bring up ‘the Richie situation.’™

  
  


By then, Eddie had already drawn up divorce papers and had boxes in storage.

  
  


But that didn’t mean he was ready for some grand confession. 

  
  


And now, after two years, Richie's coming out, and Eddie moving across the country and into Richie’s apartment building and setting up his new life there, he realized that he still may never be…

  
  


**_You: Yeah, yeah, learn a different song, Mellon._ **

**_Adrian M: Seriously, dude. It’s been long enough. You gotta tell him. I honestly don’t think it’ll go as bad as you think!_ **

  
  


Eddie’s gaze trails back up to Richie as if by magnetic pull. He watches as his best friend jokes and laughs and smiles at the handsome journalist.

  
  


His heart sinks.

  
  


He glances back down to his phone, thumb poised to type his usual response—  
  


"Who was your first crush?”

  
  


A loud clattering follows that question. Eddie’s eyes shoot back up so fast that a dart of pain pangs through his forehead. It seems the noise had been Richie promptly knocking his water bottle to the floor.  
  


Eddie’s heart hammers against his rib cage so hard he can hear it in his ears, it almost enough to drown out his frantic inner voice.   
  


_Who the fuck is he gonna say? Whenever we asked as kids he just said...oh, shit—_

  
  


“Uh—”

“If you say my mom, dude, I swear to God,” Eddie cuts in over his friend’s hesitation, trying to sound as if he is not desperate to hear his genuine answer. 

  
  


_It’s not gonna be you, Kaspbrak, so calm the fuck down._

  
  


Richie’s face morphs into something that has Eddie’s insides twisting. He really should have known better. 

  
  


As if he were a sleeper-spy activated by some secret code-word, any apprehension melts from his face, it downright mischievous now and yeah, shit, Eddie knows what’s coming. 

  
  


“Oh, Mr Daniels, let me tell you all about how Mrs Sonia Kaspbrak stole my heart when I was but a boy of elev–"

“Richie,” Eddie warns, his voice pitched low. The last thing he wants is one of Richie’s stupid mom jokes forever immortalised in a magazine article. 

  
  


His friend seems to be ignoring him now, looking across the room at something as he shifts in his chair. Before Eddie can follow his eyeline, Richie leaps out of his seat and practically tackles Stan, whipping the glass of water out of his hand and draining it in one gulp. 

  
  


Eddie grimaces at Stan’s deadpan stare. 

  
  


Richie however, has always had a deathwish and appears unperturbed as he nonchalantly answers over his shoulder, “What ya gotta know about where we grew up, Jake my man, was that it was a shithole. Truly a backwards fucking hellscape. So, there weren't a whole lotta options for a closet-case like yours truly."

  
  


Something jolts in Eddie’s stomach at those words. 

  
  


_There weren't a whole lot of options…and you weren’t even an option, Kaspbrak, let’s be real._

  
  


The reporter didn’t seem to be buying what Richie was selling, though. 

  
  


“Oh, come on. You didn’t have _one_ crush?”

  
  


Eddie watches as Richie stumbles a little, losing his footing momentarily, before righting himself. 

  
  


_What the hell is going on with him?_

  
  


“Well, I maybe had a teeny-tiny thing for ol’ Billy boy, here,” Richie winks, throwing an arm around Bill and kissing him obscenely loudly on the cheek. 

  
  


Something hot and snarling unfurls in Eddie’s gut, his entire body tensing.

  
  


Bill also seems to be having none of Richie’s response, rolling his eyes, and shoving him, “Yeah right, Rich.”

  
  


“What?” Richie asks in that dumb, innocent tone that fools nobody.

  
  


Eddie’s hands dig into the arm rests so hard his knuckles turn white. 

  
  


“Is it that hard to believe that Big Bill—” 

  
  


_Don’t do it. Don’t do it, Kaspbrak, you stupid sonofabitch._

  
  


_"—_ got my blood pump–”

  
  


“Bullshit,” Eddie interjects, the word punching out of his chest, hand flying through the air to punctuate his point. 

  
  


He can feel several eyes turn to him, including Richie’s. He fights a blush. He loses. 

  
  


He locks his gaze with Richie’s, forcing himself not to waver. He made his bed, he may as well lie in it now.

  
  


“Uh, not bullshit, Eds. What can I say? There was just something about that stutter of his, you know? _Se-Sexy_ ,” he jostles Bill, where his arm is still slung around his shoulder, leaning forward to glance across the room, “You get what I mean, right, Mikey?”

  
  


Mike is doing his typical I’m-ignoring-Richie-for-the-sake-of-my-sanity schtick, but Eddie can’t help but notice that it’s far less convincing this time around, and he has a thought or two on why that may be. But, one thing at a time. 

  
  


“Not buying it,” he snorts, in lieu of awaiting a response from Mike, folding his arms.

  
  


_Why are you pushing this so hard, Kaspbrak? Why do you care so much about who thirteen year old Richie like-liked?_

  
  


He knew well enough.

  
  


He still knows, of course. Has admitted that to himself, and Adrian, at least.

  
  


Doesn’t make it any easier though. 

  
  


Richie seems hellbent on driving his point home, and Eddie finds the pressure weighing down on his chest just that little bit more brutal with every minute syllable falling from his lips.

  
  
  


“Come on, Eds, yeah you do. I’m pretty sure Bill Denbrough was everyone’s first crush.”

  
  


“Not mine.” 

  
  


The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. 

  
  


_Bravo, dumbass. Why don’t you just confess your undying, then dying, then re-living love right here, right now, huh?_

  
  
  


Silence engulfs the room and Eddie finds himself almost missing the tranquility of death. You know, minus Adrian’s goading and the creepy buzzing of resurrection magic all around them. 

  
  
  


“Wow, thanks Eddie. I feel so loved,” Bill jokes, tone heavy with sarcasm. 

  
  


Eddie winces, reflecting on his words while simultaneously relieved from the break in the awful tension. 

  
  


“Uh, sorry Bill. I didn’t mean it like–"

  
  


“Who _did you_ have a crush on?” Richie cuts across him, his tone sharp, his face unreadable as his arm drops like an anvil from Bill’s shoulder. 

  
  


Suddenly, he’s barely a foot away, staring down at Eddie from an even greater height than usual. 

  
  


Eddie refuses to stand, not wanting to unintentionally prove his discomfort. 

  
  


Their eyes lock. 

  
  


Seconds, maybe minutes pass, hell, it could be hours for all Eddie knows. 

  
  


_Just tell him. Tell him you idiot! Listen to Adrian’s advice. Life is too short for Christ sake, you of all people should know—_

  
  


He slowly lowers his eyes, fighting the sigh that desperately wants to escape him. 

  
  


"Last time I checked this was your interview, Rich. Not mine."

  
  


_You fucking coward. 'Braver than you think,' my ass._

  
  


He can feel Richie still staring down at him, oddly quiet, as if waiting for him to say something more. 

  
  


But Eddie stays silent for once in his life.   
  


“Have you ever been in love?”

  
  


Eddie stops breathing. 

  
  


_God, this asshole is unrelenting._

  
  


He refuses to look up, to see whatever emotion is crossing his friend’s face right now. 

  
  


He waits.

  
  


And waits. 

  
  


He doesn’t really know what answer would upset him mor—

  
  


“Nope.”

  
  


The phantom knife in Eddie’s chest twists. 

  
  


Yeah, that’s it. That’s the one. That's the answer that hurts the most. Because in that one word, all hope is lost. 

  
  


He stares at nothing, his head hung low as he feels rather than sees Richie bolt back across the room, sitting heavily down in his seat and rambling an innocuous question of his own at the interviewer in an obvious attempt to change the subject. 

  
  


“Anyone ever call you ‘Jack’ by mistake?”

“God, I cannot tell you how many times a date has ordered me a JD and coke as a joke,” the reporter replies breezily, taking the bait. 

  
  


“How unoriginal,” Richie snorts, “I’d go with a whiskey sour, myself. The joke’s still there, but more subtle.”

  
  


And that’s Eddie’s cue. He can’t listen to this, so he begins to shift in his chair, just as his phone vibrates.

  
  


**_Adrian M: I’m outside. Mac is hitting on me again. Come save me._ **

  
  
  


‘Not-Jack’s’ answering laugh is loud but genuine and makes Eddie’s insides churn as he stands up. 

  
  


“I uh, gotta answer this,” he mutters almost to himself, uselessly waving his phone around, his eyes downcast as he quickly and probably a little too enthusiastically opens the door and rushes out, letting it snap loudly behind him. 

  
  


A rush of air escapes him as he finally lets himself breathe, his chest tight as he stands just outside Richie’s dressing room, stock still in the flurry of activity around him. 

  
  


The vibration of another text shoots up his arm. 

  
  


**_Adrian M: I shook Mac, no need for my white knight. But you still know where to find me if you need a breather._ **

  
  


With a roll of his eyes, Eddie allows himself one last laboured breath before making his way to Adrian’s favourite place backstage — the catering table. 

  
  


It takes exactly .2 seconds to find him, hunched over a bowl of nachos, his cane in one hand, the other buried in cheese dust. 

  
  


“You know, there might be other people craving nachos, Adrian,” Eddie remarks as he saddles up beside his friend, levelling him with his patented ‘dad-look’ (an expression coined by Adrian after seeing it too many times when he has said or done something ‘outrageous’), and folding his arms across his chest. 

  
  


“Yeah, I know,” Adrian shrugged without turning around, “that’s why I brought these.”

  
  


He holds out a brand new bag of Cool Ranch, depositing them on the table and turning on his heel. 

  
  


“Kaspy!” He smiles, enveloping Eddie in a tight hug, careful to keep his cheesy hand away from any clothing, “how’s my wife from the afterlife?”

  
  


“You know I hate both of those nicknames, Adrian,” Eddie replies in lieu of actually telling him how he is, gently breaking the hug and stepping back to really look at him. 

  
  


The last twenty-two months have been tough on the younger man. Both physically and psychologically. While Eddie had been put through the wringer too, he really couldn’t compare the trauma that Adrian had been subjected to. And really couldn’t let himself think about too much, lest he either start crying or fly into a murderous rage. 

  
  


Still, you’d never know by looking at Adrian Mellon just how much horror he had seen both during and since that night at the Derry fair. He always has this way about him, this fun and funny air that Eddie finds infectious. Much in the same way he always thought Richie had. Their banter having just ‘slightly less charged sexual energy’ according to Adrian. 

  
  


Adrian’s cane taps against the ground, a habit he picked up over the last few months when he’s ruminating on something.

  
  


His head tilts, eyes drinking in Eddie’s expression, “Oh, someone is not a happy Kaspy.”

  
  


Eddie rolls his eyes. 

  
  


“I’m fine.”

  
  


“Tell your face.”

  
  


“My face is fine.”

  
  


“Your face looks like the love of your life is currently being low-key flirted with by a handsome, younger, more confident man.” 

  
  


Eddie’s eyes narrow.

  
  


Adrian throws up his hands.

  
  


“What?! Bev may have been texting me too, okay? I gotta stay in the loop somehow. Don has me practically under house-arrest until my next PT session.” 

  
  


Eddie shrugs. 

  
  


“Richie can flirt and be flirted with by whoever he likes. I’m not his keeper. Or his boyfriend.” 

  
  


Adrian hums, wiping his hands with nearby napkins. 

  
  


“No. But you wanna be.”

  
  


“Doesn’t matter what I want.”

  
  


“Of course it does, Eddie. Don’t you think you deserve a little bit of happiness after everything you’ve been through?”

  
  


Eddie frowns, arms crossing over his chest again, his shoulders hunching. 

  
  


The word "Nope" rings in his ears. 

  
  


“What makes you think that what would make me happy would also make Richie happy?”

  
  


Adrian stares at him, clearly at war with himself before he murmurs:

  
  


“I can’t answer that, Kasp.” 

  
  


“Well, then I can’t risk it.”

  
  


He isn’t a risk analyst for nothing.

  
  


Adrian throws up a hand in frustration. 

  
  


"But I _can_ say, don't listen to everything that's said in that interview today, okay? Haven't you ever heard the phrase, _'don't believe everything you read_ ?' Same thing applies. We don't know Richie's reasoning behind his answers _—_ " he pauses, seemingly cutting himself off mid-thought, stepping closer to Eddie and gripping his shoulder.

  
  


“I still think you should tell him how you feel, Eddie. Even...even if he doesn’t feel the same way, at least then you can stop torturing yourself and know once and for all. And Richie, he would never hold it against you. Your friendship is stronger than most families, man. Fuck, most marriages, even. You’re built to last, no matter what. You both have already tackled so much together — what’s one more thing?”

  
  


Eddie shuffles his weight from foot to foot.

  
  


Adrian pauses, a sigh on his lips.

  
  


“How many times do I have to say it, Kasp? We of all people know that life is short, man. Do you really wanna risk dying again, for good this time, with some more dumb last words to Richie like, _‘I fucked your mom_ ’ instead of _‘I love you, I’ll miss you, I adored our life together_ ’?”

  
  


Eddie swallows the lump in his throat as one beat passes. 

  
  


Then two. 

  
  


Adrian heaves another sigh, deeper this time, sounding more weary than Eddie has ever heard him, including when he stumbled across Eddie in the afterlife, feral and ready to fight.

  
  


“Forget it, I know it’s not my place,” he holds up his hands, “let’s go back to the dressing room before Mac comes back and offers another threesome. I wanna see Rich before he goes onstage...and maybe get a look at this flirty reporter." 

  
  


He takes off with a speed that never fails to surprise Eddie, his cane thumping rhythmically against the ground as Eddie struggles to keep up. 

  
  


It’s as they’re edging closer to the closed door, that he falters, his hand outstretched to the handle. 

  
  


He can feel Adrian frowning at him as he pauses but only snorts when Eddie lifts his hand up and knocks firmly. 

  
  


It takes only a few seconds before the door is thrown open, revealing a puzzled Richie Tozier, blinking owlishly at them.

  
  


“I learned how to knock, asshole,” Eddie remarks, shoving his way over the threshold before Richie can open his mouth, “and look who I found at the catering table.” 

  
  


It’s a flurry of friendly hugs, then. Adrian and Richie embracing tightly before Bev bounds excitedly across the room for her turn. Eddie zones out a little as greetings are exchanged and introductions are made, Adrian’s words still ringing in his ears. 

  
  


_Do you really wanna risk dying again, for good this time, with some more dumb last words to Richie like, ‘I fucked your mom’ instead of ‘I love you, I’ll miss you, I adored our life together’?_

  
  


Short answer — no. Hell no. He doesn’t want that. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forgive himself for his first last words, for as long as he lives. So there’s no way he’d ever repeat them. 

  
  


_I love you, I’ll miss you, I adored our life together_ sounds a hell of a lot better, it really does. Eddie knows this. He does. He just doesn’t think he could ever get to a place where he would ever have a right to say them to Richie. 

  
  


“We’re coming up on T-minus thirty minutes to showtime,” Bev murmurs, snapping him from his reverie whilst tapping Richie on the shoulder, “think it’s time to get dressed, honey.”

  
  


Beverly had, over the last two years, painstakingly taken it upon herself to single-handedly restyle Richie’s entire wardrobe, something that both Eddie and the entire internet (if the many, many Buzzfeed articles were to be believed) were eternally grateful for. 

  
  


Eddie’s watches as Richie’s mouth drops open as he glances around the room.

  
  


“What, _here_? You guys want a strip-tease?” 

  
  


Adrian lets out a loud wolf-whistle while Mike, Bill, and Ben start hooting and clapping. Stan meets Richie’s eye and raises his empty glance in what Eddie knows to be a silent dare. 

  
  


Eddie stays quiet, his face burning as he looks anywhere but at Richie. Knowing where this well-worn routine is going, he crosses over to the back of the dressing room door, and grabbing the suit bag down from off the hook.

  
  


Bev tuts, “C'mon, shirt off.”

  
  
  


Richie presses a hand to his chest. 

  
  
  


“Beverly, I’m flattered, but you are an engaged woman. And I am very gay.” 

  
  
  


Eddie shoves the large suit-bag into Richie’s hands, pointing over his shoulder.

  
  
  


“There’s the bathroom, genius. You don’t need to subject anyone to your nudity.” 

  
  
  


He thinks he manages to say it somewhat normally and not with the air of someone who would very much like to be subjected to Richie’s nudity. If Adrian’s smug side-eye is anything to go by, however, he may not have been as successful as he hoped. 

  
  


He forces himself to meet Richie’s eye just as he winks.

  
  


“Aw, you sure, Eds? My dad bod may not be as aesthetically-pleasing as Haystack’s–well, _everything_ ,” he gestures lewdly up and down in Ben’s direction, “but I got some killer dance-moves.” 

  
  


Eddie rolls his eyes, feeling his ears burn with embarrassment as he desperately tries to shove the mental picture of Richie’s so-called ‘dad bod’ out of his mind. 

  
  


“That’s the first lie you’ve told today,” he scoffs, shoving Richie towards the bathroom door, “You dance like an inflatable tube man on crack.” 

  
  


With that, he pushes him over the threshold and pulls the door closed, just about drowning out Richie’s squawk of indignation. He resides himself to his fate of waiting for his friend to emerge, knowing that his opinion will more than likely (for whatever reason) be sought out first. 

  
  


It’s less than two minutes before he feels a presence beside him. 

  
  
  


"You and Richie have known each other a long time?" Josh the journalist begins with what Eddie isn’t sure is a question or a statement. 

  
  


A frown forms on his face as he crosses his arms tightly over his chest, stare levelled towards the bathroom door. 

  
  


"Uh, yeah. We grew up together."

  
  


“And you...live in his building, right? He livestreams you making him smoothies in the morning before work.”

  
  


_Geez, this guy doesn’t give up, does he?_

  
  
  


“It’s the only way I can make sure he doesn’t get scurvy.”

  
  


_That and you love cooking for him. Look forward to it, even. Love how when he tastes your food his eyes light up and he lets out those little moans that makes you think about what he’d sound like in—_

  
  


“You go to a lot of his shows, too,” the reporter cuts across his inner monologue, “and help him refine his routine. Richie tweets a lot about it.”

  
  


It had started off with Richie slipping in a new joke or two while they ate, or watched TV, but soon morphed into weeks and weeks of after-dinner work-shopping of Richie’s new material. Eddie liked being apart of the exclusive club, hearing the jokes before anyone else, straight from the source, like their very own little pre-show/dress-rehearsal. There was something...intimate about Richie, nervous and quieter than usual, standing in Eddie’s living room and giving it his all, every fumble, ever beat that didn’t land, raw and exposed for Eddie to see, to pick at, to critique. 

  
  


But honestly, Eddie really didn’t have to critique much. Just like he always knew, back from when he was a kid and would never admit it on pain of death, Richie is fucking funny. He just needed reminding every now and then. So Eddie did that in spades. In the quiet, darkened privacy of either his living room couch, or Richie’s. Just the two of them. And sometimes, Matty.

  
  


“Someone’s gotta make sure he doesn’t bomb on stage,” he says instead of anything he’s actually thinking. 

  
  


“You think he could?” the reporter sounds surprised, which instantly rubs Eddie the wrong way.

  
  


“No, not with his own stuff. He’s the funniest person I’ve ever known.” 

  
  


He realises his mistake almost instantly, but it’s too late. Those words are out there in the world, for a journalist of all people to hear. Fuck. His face burns in a way only intense sun stroke has given him before. 

  
  


“Don’t uh...don’t tell him I said that. His fivehead is big enough without that ego boost.” 

  
  


A chuckle meets that. 

  
  
  


“Your secret is safe with me.”

  
  
  


Eddie throws him some side-eye.

  
  
  


“Riiiight,” he smirks, tone dripping with sarcasm, “because we can always trust the media.”

  
  
  


The journalist holds up his hands.

  
  
  


“Hey, I’m with you, man. But I’m not FOX News. The magazine jumped at the chance to meet Richie - he’s sort of a local hero. Anything you say to me is strictly off the record. All that’s on it, are Richie’s answers to my questions.”

  
  
  


Something warm unfurls in Eddie’s stomach at the word ‘hero’ knowing that nobody is more deserving of such a title than Richie Wentworth Tozier, for a myriad of different reasons. First of which — putting up with his annoying ass since grade school. Second of which probably being when he beat a demon child-killer with nothing but a baseball bat and a witty catchphrase at thirteen years old. Followed by a tonne of other admirable shit way too long to think about right now. Even if Eddie wanted to far more than continue this conversation with a nosy stranger.

  
  
  


“A hero, huh?” he murmurs, not quite able to hide his growing smile. 

  
  
  


“Yeah,” the other man agrees, meeting his eye, “takes a lot of guts, coming out like that. Hell, coming out at any age is terrifying, but as a 40-something, middle-America comedian that made a living out of bad girlfriend jokes? That’s–”

  
  


“Brave,” Eddie finishes, feeling it in his bones. 

  
  


That ever-present pride for his friend and his accomplishments, blooms in his chest. 

  
  


The reporter nods in such a way that tells Eddie he’s gearing up to something. 

  
  


“So, what were you guys like–”

  
  
  


“I’m ready for my close-up, Ms Marsh!”

  
  


Eddie’s eyes shoot up to the bathroom door that had just burst open, revealing Richie in a dark-navy suit jacket and pants that fit him like a glove. His mouth waters as his eyes rake over Richie’s ridiculously broad shoulders, itching to reach out and trace his fingers along the material to see if he could feel the thrumming muscle underneath.

  
  


The pattern along the neckline and lapels are a typical Richie-style with more sophistication, a mixture of his ridiculous Hawaii shirts and Bev’s impeccable flare. 

  
  


Eddie stops breathing altogether as he takes in the tight, black shirt underneath, stretching across the expanse of his equally-broad chest.

  
  


_‘Dad bod’ my ass._

  
  


He bites his lip and reminds himself that there are people around and _to get a fucking grip, already._

  
  


“Well, what do ya think?” Richie asks, blissfully unaware of Eddie’s brain short-circuiting as he props his chin in his hands and turns to them all, channelling his thirteen-year-old-self, “Have I finally _grown into my looks_?”

  
  


_You’ve done more than that._

  
  
  


Eddie watches, mouth half-open as Bev adjusts Richie’s sleeve, large grin on her face.

  
  


“You look good, Rich.

He scrunches up his nose in a way that, if Eddie was a different man, he may be enamoured by.

“No need to lie, Ringwald. I’m well aware what ‘growing into my looks’ means. I'm no oil paint–"

“You look really handsome.” 

  
  


_WHAT THE FUCK, KASPBRAK?!_

  
  


He...did not mean to say that out loud. And, with a quick glance around the room, it seems nobody else thinks he meant to either. 

  
  


Still, it’s the truth. And Eddie stands by it. That’ll do nothing to abate his tomato-face, though.

  
  


Richie doesn’t meet his eye as he clears his throat, muttering softly, “Thanks, Eds.” 

  
  


Eddie nods frantically, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes lowering and catching on something that makes him wince.

  
  


“Are you seriously gonna keep the Converse though, dude? Aren’t they a little too…‘90s Nirvana grunge for that suit?” 

  
  


He knows he doesn’t sound nearly as unimpressed as he should, his stomach fluttering with nostalgia as Richie, as done up as he is, still manages to retain a piece of his unique brand in the form of his beat-up sneakers.

  
  


Eddie is man enough to admit (even if only to himself) that the sneaker/suit companion is _really doing it_ for him. 

  
  


Richie snorts, “‘90s Nirvana grunge has been my jam since the actual ‘90s, Eds. You of all people should remember that.” 

  
  


Eddie pauses, before a memory shook loose in his brain.

  
  


He rolls his eyes. Only spooky Derry magic could have ever made him forget the road-trip from hell. 

  
  


“Yeah, dickwad. I remember you dragging me halfway across the country to see Kurt Cobain because he was ‘the voice of a generation, Eddie Spaghetti, you wouldn’t understand’,” he punctuates with air-quotes and his best impression of teenage Richie.

  
  


It’s not half-bad, if he does say so himself. Definitely better than Richie’s impression of him. 

  
  


He takes a quick breath, gearing up for the rant he hasn’t had since 1992.

  
  


“Only for us to finally get there and realise you had been stiffed with fake-ass tickets. How you actually believed you got the real deal for twenty bucks, I’ll never know. And then, THEN your shitty-ass truck breaks down in the middle of nowhere and we had to call your dad to pick us up. I was never more embarrassed in my life. My mom sent out a search party for me, asshole. After everything that happened in ‘89, I’m surprised she didn’t have you arrested for kidnapping me.” 

  
  


Richie silently lets him rant, an indistinguishable expression on his face. It’s as annoying at forty-two as it was at fifteen. 

  
  


“What happened in ‘89?” the nosy reporter pipes up.

  
  


Eddie freezes, jaw clenched.

  
  


“None of your business, FOX News.”

  
  


He knows it’s rude, but frankly he doesn’t care to come up with a lie on the spot like that. What else could he possibly say? _‘Oh, not much. We just fought a murderous space-clown that fed on the fear of children. I broke my arm and Bill punched Richie in the face. It was a riot.’_

  
  


Richie throws him a look worthy of an exasperated Edward Francis Kaspbrak.

  
  


“Spagheds, play nice. Don’t want the _Here ‘n’ Queer_ folks to read all about the bitchy company I keep, do you?” 

  
  


Eddie scoffs.

  
  


“It’s a bit late for that, thanks to your Tweets and Instagram streams, man. That ship has sailed.” 

  
  


Something else passes over Richie’s face at that. Something, if Eddie was a braver man, may have called _fond_.

  
  


“Don didn’t talk you into the contacts idea, I see,” Adrian pipes up, catching their attention, a glint in his gaze as he glances between them.

  
  


Richie steps towards the mirror as he replies with a grimace, “Ugh, Hell no. Been there, done that, got the pink-eye. I once dated a guy that tried to get me to wear them ‘cause my glasses made me look like ‘a lankier, less sexy Buddy Holly,’ apparently. I lasted three days. It was a fuckin’ disaster. I kept forgetting to take them out and slept with them in and,” he shudders, “they’d end up in the most uncomfortable places. It suh-ucked. He broke up with me after I moaned about peeling one off my ass." 

  
  


Eddie’s blood runs cold at that.

  
  


_What kinda asshole would force Richie to wear contacts?! His glasses are a part of who he is, always has been. ‘Less sexy Buddy Holly’, my ass. He’s fuckin’ hot. Dude must have needed contacts himself. Dickwad. If I was Richie’s boyfr_ –

  
  


He shakes his head, stopping that notion in its tracks.

  
  


_Danger, Will Robinson! No, Will Robinson. Danger!_

  
  


"Bastard,” Adrian grumbles. “Is that the last time you got laid?” 

  
  


Eddie’s heart leaps into his throat, his entire body tensing.

  
  


He has been Richie’s neighbour/practical roommate for nearly two years now, having seen the inside of Richie’s guest-room and comfortable couch more than his own apartment. Has spent at least six out of seven days a week with him when he hasn’t been on the road touring. And even when he has, Eddie has spoken on the phone to him, Skyped him at night and text intermittently throughout the day – surely if Richie had been... _sleeping with someone_ , Eddie would have known?

  
  


_Or maybe Richie’s just discreet after years of being closeted? And doesn’t want his annoying not-quite-roommate all up in his personal business? Two years is a long time to go without a warm body to pass the time with._

  
  


Eddie knows that more than most. He has almost a decade on that. Had experienced a cold and lonesome bed for the majority of his marriage. Only difference is, he had prefered it that way back then. Now though…? His treacherous mind tends to wander across the hall to where Richie sleep-laughs and lightly snores and wonders what it would be like to share space with him like they did back when they were kids.

  
  


He swallows the lump in his throat, antsy as he awaits Richie’s response. 

  
  


Adrian continues when Richie is weirdly quiet for too long, turning to the journalist.

  
  


“Have you asked him that embarrassing question, yet?”

  
  


“Adrian!” Richie practically squeaks, his cheeks aflame in a way that has Eddie’s stomach rolling, “Dude, nobody wants to know about–”

“Everybody wants to know about your sex-life, Richie. Or, lack thereof,” he waves his hand, addressing Josh-Jack-whatever again, “I’ve been trying to set him up since I met him. But he’s having none of it, the spoilsport.” 

  
  


Yeah. That’s another thing Eddie hadn’t appreciated when Adrian met Richie, either. If he had to guess at the younger man’s logic, he supposed him trying to set Richie up was some sort of scheme to urge Eddie into confessing his life-long love, or some shit. Thankfully, Richie has never taken Adrian up on his offer. For whatever reason. Eddie can never really understand why.

  
  


But that doesn’t stop hope from blooming very unhelpfully in his chest.

  
  


“I don’t need your help getting a–”

  
  


“Didn’t you say like ten minutes ago that you ‘need all the help you can get?’” Stan cuts across Richie’s protest. 

Irritation spikes in Eddie’s veins.

He loves the Losers, he does. But sometimes, they’re too much. And that’s saying something, coming from him.

  
  


“I–that’s not what I meant,” Richie replies, his voice a little weak, “can we change the–”

“So _when is_ the last time you got laid, then? ‘Cause I think you may have had a point with your old standup, Rich. It could be a ‘use it or lose it’ type of situation when it comes to _Little Richard_ ,” Adrian viciously interjects with a gleam in his eye.

The desire to defend Richie washes over Eddie like a wave. But, he forces himself to stay quiet. He’s not even sure what he would be defending, really. Richie’s sexual prowess? Hard pass.

“I...do alright, Mellon,” Richie responds tightly, causing Eddie’s heart to sink into his stomach.

  
  


Guess he wouldn’t know, then.

  
  


Wincing, he tries (and fails) to banish from his brain the onslaught of images of Richie and some faceless man writhing against each other, groaning as they make each other feel good, sighing out each other’s names in some nondescript hotel room as Eddie calls Richie’s cell from home, wondering why he isn’t picking up.

  
  


_God, you’re like some neglected housewife whose husband is on a business trip, Kaspbrak. Richie doesn’t owe you anything. He can fuck whoever–_

  
  


“Hmm,” Adrian cuts through his mental-scolding, ““I’m not so sure. I mean, I keep saying you could clean up. You all could, you sexy bastards,” he gestures to Mike, “Mike is the muscle stud, Eddie has a kinda twink-vibe goin’ on–”

“Seriously?” 

Eddie turns to his friend, gaping.

  
  


He thinks he knows just enough about gay culture to know what twinks are. And that he sure as shit isn’t one.

  
  


Adrian merely winks at him.

  
  


Richie decides to answer with a snort, “Oh come on Eds, don't be dumb. You’re not a twink." 

"Thank you."

"You’re too old.”

He really should have seen that coming.

“Fuck you,” he grits out, pointing agressively, “I’m only twelves hours older than you ar–”

“If anything, you’re a twunk.”

Eddie pauses, brow furrowing.

“The fuck is a ‘twunk’?” 

His knowledge of gay culture and lingo...may have some gaps. Fuck, give him a break. He only admitted to himself that he wasn’t straight after he died two years ago. He clearly has a lot to learn.

  
  


An unfamiliar laugh breaks him from his reverie. Turning, he sees it’s the reporter, looking directly at them.

  
  


“Sorry, sorry,” he holds up his hands, looking abashed, “it’s just...you guys should have your own show, or something.” 

  
  


Eddie frowns.

  
  


_The fuck does that mean?_

  
  


“Well...Richie already does,” he says slowly, not really getting where he is going with this.

  
  


A knock cuts off any possible reply, Don’s voice calling through the door, “You’re on in ten, Rich!” 

  
  


Richie shakes himself, “Thanks, Don!” 

  
  


“Have you seen Adrian?” 

  
  


Eddie watches as Adrian straightens up, a small smile gracing his face.

  
  


“And...that’s my cue,” he announces, nodding at Joe-Jim-Jax, “it was nice meeting you. Cannot wait to read your exposé on this party-animal.”

  
  


Eddie suppresses a snort as Richie flips Adrian off.

  
  


Adrian gives his own one-fingered salute right back before tilting his head at the reporter, tone far too innocent:

“Hey, are you single? It’s just, Richie definitely has a thing for brunets and you–”

“Isn’t Don waiting on you, Adrian?” Eddie cuts across him sharply, giving him a gentle shove towards the door.

_He’s such a little shit sometimes._

  
  


“Yeah, you’re right, Eddie,” he murmurs far too sweetly, nudging him with his elbow as he halts at the door, “Besides, we should probably leave these two alone to finish their interview. Richie goes on soon, but _a lot_ can happen in ten minutes, right?” 

  
  


_Scratch that, he’s a gigantic shit all the time._

  
  


Eddie throws him a look that he knows is part glare, part grimace that hopefully conveys his unbridled irritation at his obvious prodding.

  
  


“Uh–”

  
  


“Yeah, we should probably all head out,” Bev announces, saving Eddie from having to think of something to say like the actual saint she is. “We gotta go find our seats.” 

The room breaks into its usual chaos whenever the Losers move altogether, edging towards the door, offering their parting ‘good lucks’ to Richie. Eddie zones out, not really listening to anything being said until he suddenly finds himself the only one left, standing in front of Richie and the dreaded reporter.

  
  


“FOX News,” he nods at Jake, finally acknowledging to himself that he knew his name this entire time but petulantly refused to admit it.

  
  


“Twunk,” Jake nods back.

  
  


_Huh. He’s funny too. Snarky, even._

Eddie has to respect that, even if it bugs the shit outta him.

  
  


His eyes trail back over to Richie, raking his face.

  
  


If he were a better friend, he would encourage Richie to ask Jake out. He can see that the other man is interested, and Richie probably is too, Eddie just doesn’t let himself consider it. Thing is, he’s not a better friend. He’s bitter and jealous and in love.

  
  


And, most notably of all - a coward.

  
  


He shakes his head, clearing his throat.

  
  


Taking a step towards Richie, he rests his hand on his shoulder, forcing himself to meet his eye to deliver his own version of good luck, but for the show or for the potential date, he isn’t sure. 

  
  


“Uh, you got this, dude. Remember...you’re...you’re braver than you think. I–I’ll leave you guys to it.” 

  
  


He practically power-walks from the room, not allowing himself to look back as the door shuts heavily behind him. He propels himself down the corridor, towards the auditorium.

  
  


_It’s okay. It’s fine if Richie begins dating. I–I can deal with it. Richie...he deserves happiness and I–I can’t stand in the way of that on the very slight chance that I could be the one who–_

  
  


He comes to an abrupt halt as Adrian and Don appear up ahead of him. They’re smiling at one another as if they’re the only two people in the world, arms wrapped around each other’s waists, speaking quietly.

  
  


It makes Eddie’s heart ache.

  
  


God, he’d do anything for something like that.

  
  


Adrian’s words echo in the back of his mind.

  
  


_Don’t you think you deserve some happiness after everything you’ve been through?_

  
  


Thing is, Richie already makes him happy. Every day he spends with him, even the boring, rainy ones that they spend channel-surfing in their sweatpants, are infinitely better than any of the days, months, years he spent without him.

  
  


That would be the case, even if he wasn’t in love with him.

  
  


But he was.

  
  


_Is_ in love with him.

  
  


And has been in love with him for as long as he could remember. And even when he couldn’t. And would probably continue to be until the day he died. Again.

  
  


Eddie watches as Don reaches down to peck a kiss against Adrian’s temple, the gesture intimate and sweet. And almost by spooky-Derry-magic, he could see with sudden clarity, throughout their entire life together, all his and Richie’s intimate, sweet gestures. 

  
  


The brushed hands while reading the same comic book. The fingers wrapped around his ankle in the hammock. His fingers gently pressing a bandaid to a perpetually-scraped knee. The feet tangling together in a too-small bed after one of them has a nightmare. The shoving and hair-ruffling and rough-housing. The nose burying in his hair as they hug each other goodbye through floods of tears.

  
  


Then, years later, much of the same. The arm-wrestling, the pat to an injured cheek. The tightest hug known to man when they reunite on the land of the living. The press of lips in his hair when Richie comes out and Eddie gives him the second-tightest hug known to man. Richie’s feet in Eddie’s lap when he furiously writes his award-winning set. Eddie’s head on Richie’s shoulder when he’s sleep-deprived and bad ‘80s movies aren’t keeping his attention. Their feet tangling together on the too-small couch after one of them has a nightmare and the other one talks him down from a panic attack. 

  
  


The soft smiles across a table as they eat the meal they cooked together with more fun and laughter than Eddie has ever had in his entire life. 

  
  


All of this is imperfectly meshed with a level of practicality, just how Eddie likes it. They have a shared life now, practically living under one roof. Eddie cooks, Richie does the dishes. Eddie cleans, Richie takes out the trash. Eddie listens to Richie’s drafts, Richie proof-reads Eddie’s notes.

  
  


It all just...works.

  
  


It always has with Richie.

  
  


_He would never hold it against you. Your friendship is stronger than most families, man. Fuck, most marriages, even. You’re built to last, no matter what. You both have already tackled so much together — what’s one more thing?_

  
  


“What’s one more thing?” Eddie asks himself under his breath.

  
  


A beat passes.

  
  


Then two.

  
  


Heart leaping into his throat, Eddie turns on his heel and begins sprinting back down towards Richie’s dressing room.

  
  


_He could do this. He could say his piece and know for sure one way or another. If it doesn’t go his way, they would survive this. They could survive crazy killer clowns (for the most part), they could survive an impromptu love confession._

  
  


_At least, Eddie hopes they can because now that he’s begun running, he’s not really sure he can stop if-_

  
  


“Whoa, shit, sorry!”

  
  


He almost barrels into Jake at full force but manages to pivot at the last second, throwing him an apologetic look.

  
  


_Man, I really hope he hasn’t asked Richie out._

  
  


Before he can dwell on that and begin talking himself out what is probably the biggest mistake of his life, a familiar figure appears in his line of sight. It’s Richie, exiting his dressing room, making his way towards the stage.

  
  


Eddie suddenly can’t wait one more second. His thirty-year-confession wanting nothing more than to burst from him like a dam.

  
  


“Rich! Richie, wait!” 

  
  


He takes off at a sprint, terrified that Richie somehow hasn’t heard him practically hollering like a banshee. 

  
  


He could be embarrassed about that later. If his heart isn’t broken by then. 

  
  


“Whoa, Eds, easy!” Richie exclaims, eyes wide as he catches him by the elbows, steadying him before he can send them both tumbling to the floor.

  
  


“Shit sorry,” Eddie gasps, clutching Richie’s arms, trying to gather himself, “Don’t go on stage yet. I-I need you to know something.” 

  
  


Richie raises an eyebrow.

  
  


“Is this where you tell me that you’ve killed Maryanne? ‘Cause I told you, I don’t really care about that Pepsi commer-”

  
  


“Richie, I have done thy mother.” 

  
  


The words rush out of him like a tidal wave, before he can give them any proper thought.

Richie blinks. Once. Twice.

  
  


“Uh...what?”

  
  


Eddie flounders for a second, taking a breath, trying to calm his fraying nerves.

  
  


“It’s a—it’s a quote from Titus Andronicus. Sorry, I’m nervous. I—I’m trying to do what you do and joke my way into something. You said once that we can’t all be Shakespeare. And—And I’m really sorry that my last words to you—or what I _thought_ were gonna be my last words anyway—were 'I fucked your mother.' They...they should’ve been something else. Something I don’t want to wait until I die again to say anymore…” 

  
  


_Now or never, Kaspbrak._

  
  


He reaches up and places his hand on Richie’s cheek. 

  
  


Large, dark eyes blink at him from those dumb, black frames that he loves so much. 

  
  


"Did you...did you mean it when you said you’ve never been in love? Because I have. Once. In my whole life. With one person. I—fuck it, sorry, I’ve come this far, I gotta tell you, please don’t hate me, I couldn't bear it. I can move out of the apartment building, I can go back to just being on the group chat and not talk to you directly in case it's awkward but just—please don't hate me, Rich.”

  
  


Richie opens his mouth to speak, but Eddie just tightens his hands on Richie's forearms and gasps out all in a rush: 

“Richie, I...I've been in love with you since I was twelve years old. You—you drove me fuckin' crazy with your mom jokes and gross hygiene and—but all I wanted to do was kiss you. All the fucking time. I...I would climb into that deathtrap of a hammock just to feel your hand on my ankle, your knee brush against mine. I'd deliberately rant nonsense at you just to get you to notice me—and—I still do, Richie. These last two years, moving across the country, living in your apartment building, cooking in your kitchen, watching dumb TV together and falling asleep on your couch despite the fact I live one floor away. And...and being there for you when you came out and helping you work-shop and Jesus, everything you've done for me, helping through my divorce, helping me move, all of it and everything in between has only made me realise how much I still feel... _everything_ for you. All the childish stuff from back then and more...adult stuff from now. And god, I know how that sounds, don't even think about making the jo—" 

  
  
  


"'I've been in love with you since I was twelve years old' was supposed to be my line, jackass.” 

  
  


All syllables die in Eddie’s throat.

  
  


Richie’s hands squeeze his elbows, looking as if he’s two seconds from bursting into tears while simultaneously doing the macarena. 

  
  


“You’re un-fucking-real, Eddie Kaspbrak,” he croaks, tone unbelivably fond, “I...I’ve been in love with you since before I really understood what that meant. Back when the only way I could express it was by carving our initials into the Kissing Bridge. You, with your stupid fannypack and germophobia and tight, short-shorts that drove thirteen-year-old-me around the twist. I never forgot you, either. Not really. And now I finally know why my heart would race whenever I saw inhalers or digital watches. I was really worried for awhile that I had some deep-seated kinks but turns out that they just reminded me of you. Eddie Spaghetti. Eds. My first crush. My only crush that turned into my first and only love.” 

  
  


He lets out a stuttered breath, eyes shining brightly.

  
  


“These...these last two years have been...have been like someone else’s life. After years of being alone, of—of missing someone I couldn’t fully remember, I finally... _we finally_ —”

  
  


A small sob escapes Richie then, tears pricking the corner of his eyes. 

  
  


Eddie reaches up, gently slipping a thumb under the glasses to brush the moisture away.

  
  


Richie’s eyes close at the contact, a small smile gracing his lips.

  
  


"The Kissing Bridge?" Eddie whispers, awe-struck.

Richie nods, his eyes still closed as Eddie's thumb brushes away another tear.

"I carved 'R+E' into the post that summer with my dad's pocketknife. I was always terrified that you'd see it and—"

"I did see it, Rich. I rode my bike passed there every day, but...I never let myself hope that..."

Emotion wells in Eddie's throat as he takes a shaky breath.

Richie opens his eyes, they shining bright with tears that was offset by a beaming smile.

“You gonna knock my glasses off like you did back in the hammock, Eds? ‘Cause I gotta admit something else, man, that always got me—”

  
  


Eddie cups the back of his neck, pulling him down and crashing his lips against his in a searing kiss.

  
  


He pours everything into it. All the years of pining, angst, jealousy, laughter, teasing, love. Every single emotion he has ever felt for Richie Tozier. 

  
  


It barely takes a second for Richie to recover from his shock, then he has one hand buried in Eddie’s hair, the other clutching his hip and tugging him closer, returning everything he has felt for the last thirty years, right back.

  
  


Eddie lets out a groan that he will 100% deny later as Richie sucks on his bottom lip, nipping at it gently.

  
  


Eddie opens his mouth, deepening the kiss, their tongues brushing before the need for oxygen forces them to part.

  
  


"Eds!” Richie exclaims breathlessly, resting their foreheads together as the kiss breaks, “You can't just...you can't just proclaim your love and kiss me, making twelve-year-old me’s dream come true right before I go on stage! You tryin' to kill me, man? You want me to blow chunks all over the micro-"

  
  


Eddie cuts him off with another peck, tongue tracing the seam of his bottom lip. 

Richie hums into the kiss, arm slipping around his waist and pulling their chests tightly together, practically lifting Eddie off the ground.

  
  


“Wait, fuck, Eds,” he pulls back slightly, looking pained as if that’s the last thing he wants to do, murmuring against his lips, “You can't give me a boner, either. I mean, I would like to make up for all the ones I didn't get to have in Derry High but my publicist may actually murder me if I go on stage with a semi." 

  
  


They break out in laughter at that, Eddie resting his head on Richie’s shoulder and letting his eyes slip closed, relief washing over him like a balm to his aching heart.

  
  


“Seriously, man,” Richie is continuing, hands squeezing his waist, “I thought you were a risk analyst? You have any idea how risky it is to-”

  
  


“You remembered what I do.” 

  
  


He can’t hide the pleased smile in his voice as he leans back to look up at Richie who promptly pulls a face at him.

  
  


“Of course I did. I remember everything about you, Eddie. Now that I’m allowed.” 

  
  


His large hand reaches up to pat his cheek, much gentler than he did down in the sewers.

  
  


“I’ll never forget anything about you ever again, Eds. Not for as long as I live.”

  
  


It sounds like a whole different confession.

  
  


Eddie thinks it might just be.

  
  


Before he can reply, something out of the corner of his eye nabs his attention.

  
  


“Shit. Isn’t that your stage manager?” 

  
  


Richie, still looking punch-drunk, slowly turns towards the stage where in the opposite wing is a short, angry-looking younger man, waving furiously at them.

  
  


“Fuck, yeah. I uh...I probably should have been on stage like five minutes ago,” he shrugs, pulling out a fancy, cloth handkerchief that Bev must have stuffed in his pocket and dabbing his face.

He winces down at the cloth when he pulls it away from his face.

"Shit, I can't believe these words are about to leave my mouth but...my make-up is probably kinda fucked, huh? Sandra is gonna dig me up and murder me again when Luke slits my throat after the show." 

  
  


Eddie blanches, the sincerity of the situation catching up to him as he dutifully inspects Richie's face for any obvious streak marks.

He'll tease him about the make-up comment later. After he saves him from the wrath of his infuriated stage manager.

  
  


“Shit! Rich, sorry I-I shouldn’t have sprung all this on you right before-” 

  
  


Richie cuts him off with a chaste kiss that is more a pressing of their smiles, but still has Eddie's toes curling.

  
  


“You kiddin’ Eds?” he asks, his tone tinged with awe as they lock eyes, “This is the best ‘break a leg’ I’ve ever gotten. I’m gonna give them the show of a lifetime because I feel fuckin' invincible right now. Like, do we have any other space aliens that need murdering? 'Cause I'm one-hundred percent down.” 

  
  


Eddie shakes his head in amusement, giving him a gentle shove.

"Let's hope not. I don't see any baseball bats around here and I think you're outta catchphrases. Go make people laugh and then we'll talk about catching another predator or something." 

Richie smirks.

  
"God, you're hot when you talk about our childhood trauma."

Eddie rolls his eyes.

"And you're hot in that suit. Remind me to get Bev an extra birthday present this year."

Adorably, Richie flushes a deep crimson, a couple of shades darker than Eddie has ever seen.

"Shit, r-really? Eds, you can't say that shit to me, dude-"

Eddie pecks his lips before giving him one last, gentle shove.

“Go, before Luke adds me to his kill-list too. We’ll...we’ll talk more later.”

  
  


Richie raises an eyebrow, smile smug, but eyes far too fond to truly pull it off.

  
  


“I’m hoping we’ll do more than that, Eddie. I've been fantasizing about holding your hand and goin' steady with you for like, thirty years now." 

  
  


Eddie snorts.

  
  


“Well, in that case, how about if you give them,” he points at the stage, “a good show, I’ll give you a _better one_ when we get home.” 

  
  


Richie mouth drops open - rendered speechless.

  
  


_Huh. Miracles do happen._

  
  


"So what like, takin' off our shirts and kissin' while we arm-wrestle?"

_Well, it was nice while it lasted._

“Something like that," Eddie deadpanned before shooing him, "Go! I’ll be here when you get back.” 

  
  


Richie smiles softly, walking backwards towards the stage, gaze dancing.

  
  


“I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say, I love you.” 

  
  


Eddie’s heart soars as he rolls his eyes.

  
  


“You’re a giant nerd, you know that right?” 

  
  


Richie winks.

  
  


“Takes one to know one, Willy Shakes. Titus Andronicus? Colour me impressed.” 

* * *

[More Reddie fics here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortexikid/works?fandom_id=134900) featuring a myriad of different love confessions because apparently I can't limit myself to write about just one lol. Come scream at me about these Losers [on Tumblr](http://octoberobserver.tumblr.com) if that's your thing! Would love to know what you thought :)


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